


Ghosts in the Graveyard

by AnonyFiction



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Kink Meme, M/M, Nipple Play, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonyFiction/pseuds/AnonyFiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pitch finds a sad, tired Jack in the old Burgess Cemetery.</p><p>In response to a kink meme request: http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/2200.html?thread=3302808#cmt3302808</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts in the Graveyard

The air had turned awfully cold, which would have been normal anytime Jack Frost turned up in Burgess, but this cold was different for sure. Pitch could practically feel the sadness that rolled off the air currents; even the snowflakes looked different than normal. The tiny flakes pelted down from the clouds, sharp, angry, and laced with dread. Pitch greedily inhaled these negative emotions. He had been weakened from his most recent defeat, doomed to hide in the darkness until he could regain his strength, but following the young spirit around had provided him with plenty to feed off of. Jack had always, throughout his three hundred years, had an abundant reserve of fear that Pitch could drink from. The poor, naïve thing had no idea, not that Pitch could blame him. In comparison to himself, Jack was practically an infant; a youngster who still needed to learn to dampen his emotions, else they may send his powers out of control.  


But Pitch would enjoy this sad, fearful Jack Frost while he still could. The shade looked toward the horizon. The Moon was hidden behind the thick covering of Jack’s snow clouds, and the sun wouldn’t be up for a few more hours. Riding low in the shadows, Pitch used his keen sense for fear to track the frost child’s location.  


He made his way deep into the dark forest until the lights of the town could no longer penetrate the inky blackness. The snow was heavier here, and the cold… Oh, how Pitch regretted not getting Jack to join him sooner. This exact weather was exactly what Pitch had in mind. Why, Jack hardly even needed his help in creating this absolutely depressing and desolate atmosphere, Pitch actually felt some jealousy well up in his chest. The boy was damned powerful and he had yet to fully realize it himself. But Pitch knew that this violent weather would only be temporary. No doubt, Jack would pull himself together by morning. That was the thing Pitch had noticed about Jack first: he was at his lowest during the nights, when the children were asleep and the streets were quiet and lonely.  


Pitch finally came to a small clearing, and he immediately recognized the old Burgess cemetery. He used to haunt the place regularly back when it still got visitors, but the place had fallen into ruin more than a century ago and was now just as lonely as poor Jack Frost. Pitch scanned the rows of crumbling tombstones, which had wilted from neglect and he almost missed the equally wilted form of Jack Frost. The thin, hooded figure was faced away from Pitch, and leaning against one of the old tombstones. Another smaller gravestone next to the one Jack leaned on had been decorated with ice-covered red roses. The boogeyman didn’t doubt that Jack had placed them there himself.  


Pitch silently approached the winter child before giving a small harrumph to make his presence known. Jack’s reaction was immediate but tired and non-combative. Jack only flinched slightly before turning his red-rimmed gaze up to meet Pitch’s own.  


“Well, well, if it isn’t the Guardian of Fun himself,” Pitch taunted, bitterness – somewhat unintentional – mixed into the words that rolled off his tongue. “The infamous Jack Frost right back to the same state I saw you in down at the South Pole. Tell me, is being a Guardian everything you dreamed of? Are you happy with your new family? Where are they anyway?”  


Jack’s shoulders hunched as Pitch’s words assaulted him, and there was a small tremble in his voice when he finally spoke up. “They don’t know I’m here,” he said quietly. “I just… needed some alone time. I’ve been overwhelmed lately, y’know?”  


“Oh, yes,” Pitch replied, bitterness still heavy on his speech. “It is such a huge responsibility, being a Guardian. Is it worth it? How many believers do you have again? Six? Seven?”  


“At least I have believers,” Jack retorted, and Pitch fought to hide the hurt in his own expression. “And I'll get more believers… I just have to be patient.”  


Pitch could hear how mechanical those words sounded coming from the winter spirit. They had been said to the child many times, and Jack had repeated them to himself many times. At least Jack had a family now, and a handful of believers to his name, but three hundred years of complete loneliness was a difficult cycle to break out of. Pitch knew that. Not to mention Jack was still barely getting used to his new found responsibilities. Pitch had watched the boy - so naïve - try to play with and protect every single child in the world, whether they believed in him or not, and it still hadn't clicked with him that that was just impossible. Exhaustion and hopelessness weighed down on Jack’s shoulders, making them slump further as he leaned against the tombstone. “Just…” Jack shook his head tiredly. “Just fuck off, Pitch.”  


Pitch grinned as he knelt down next to Jack, who shifted uncomfortably at the shade’s close proximity. Pitch’s grin only grew as he felt fear radiate from Jack’s thin body. There was so much fear there, so much sadness, and Pitch wanted to drink it all. “Is this your family, Jack?” he asked, motioning to the old graves that surrounded them. Jack remained silent for a moment before slowly nodding, and Pitch didn’t miss the tears that brimmed along the edges of his eyes.  


“This one…” Jack tapped the headstone he was currently leaned against. “This one’s mine.”  


Pitch looked a bit closer and could barely see the faint outlines of what used to be letters. No doubt they once spelled out the boy’s name, but nature had taken her course on the old stone, and the words were hardly legible.  


Pitch gestured toward the rose-decorated tombstone, “And who might this be?” Jack smiled slightly, but there was no happiness in his features.  


“My baby sister,” he responded, voice trembling a bit more than it had before. Tears now found their way down Jack’s cheeks and his face crumpled with grief. “All t-this time, I-I thought I d-didn’t have a f-family before and… but they were right there in f-front of me.” Jack gasped for air bringing his hands up to press against his eyes. His next words were barely a whisper. “Sh-she walked right through me. I d-didn’t recognize her, a-and she c-couldn’t see me. I d-didn’t try hard enough. She walked right through me, a-and I was alone. She walked right through me…”  


Pitch watched as Jack trembled against his tombstone, curling in on himself as though he were cold. Pitch inhaled deeply, catching the scent of Jack’s grief. He hungrily leaned forward, breathing in through his nose the sweet smell of Jack’s fear. The boy shuddered at the closeness, but there was a deep exhaustion that had settled in his bones as well. Pitch had propositioned the boy before, and Frost’s scathing reply was “Over my dead body.” But tonight, the child was less feisty; he hadn’t even reached for his staff when Pitch approached him. Odd behavior for the boy; it was almost as if he wanted Pitch to just have his way with him and leave. The boy was resigned, too tired to fight Pitch off of him; too tired and sad to even care.  


Pitch grinned. “You don’t have to be alone, Jack,” he cooed. Jack’s head jerked up at the familiar words. It was then that Pitch took the next leap, holding the back of Jack’s hooded head and pressing his mouth against icy lips.  


Jack’s body stiffened at first, but soon enough he settled into the kiss, even parting his lips slightly to allow Pitch in. The older man closed his lips entirely around Jack’s parted mouth and inhaled, sucking on the fear and sadness that resided inside of Jack’s body. He normally only did this when people were asleep, but to have Jack’s smaller body wriggling beneath him sent small shocks of pleasure and longing throughout his own body. He pulled away only to lean back in to lightly kiss Jack’s cheeks, licking his tears and drinking his sadness. He then maneuvered the winter child’s frame so that he was lying on his back in the snow before he brought his face down to nuzzle the side of Jack’s throat, feeling the small pulse against his lips. Jack sucked in air, his chest rising against Pitch’s form.  


Slowly, Pitch let his hands wander down to Jack’s hips, feeling the younger male’s breath hitch at the gentle touch. The man chuckled lightly, bringing his face further down to where his hands rested. If Jack’s compliance hadn’t been enough, the bulge in his pants certainly made it clear that Jack wanted Pitch to touch him. He just refused to verbalize it.  


Pitch hooked his finger on the hem of Jack’s pants, pulling it down just enough to expose the boy’s hipbone. He lightly kissed the pale skin to which Jack reacted by gasping and bringing his hips up. Pitch grinned, moving his hand to cup Jack’s erection through his pants. The boy inhaled sharply through his teeth, moving his hips again and pressing himself into the man’s warm hand. Pitch’s grin widened when he moved his hand away and Jack whined at the loss. Pitch almost gave in to his own arousal. Almost. He was also painfully hard, but eons of experience had taught him much about keeping up his composure. He wanted to turn Jack over and fuck him against his tombstone, but making the boy come from touch alone sounded like it would be much more entertaining.  


He pushed Jack’s hoodie up just enough to reveal milky flesh, stretched taut over his abdomen. He had a cute bellybutton, Pitch mused, slipping his tongue into the small dip before lightly biting the top edge and earning a small squeak from the frost boy. Pitch moved the blue hoodie up further, leaving a trail of kisses up the narrow pillar of Jack’s chest. He pulled back slightly glancing at Jack’s blushed face; his eyes clenched shut, lips parted and needy, a thin layer of frost coated his lightly flushed cheeks. Then, when Pitch looked back down at Jack’s chest, he found that he was unable to look away from Jack’s nipples. Soft and pink, they were. Round areolas, still smooth against the pale chest, rising and falling rapidly with each breath that Jack took. Frost patterns began to race down Jack’s chest; it was his special way of blushing, which Pitch found absolutely adorable. Those nipples though, still so soft and flat on the frost boy’s chest. The boogeyman wanted to watch them stand, and given Jack’s current state of arousal, Pitch knew it wouldn’t be difficult to make them pucker for him. He straightened up so he sat on the boy’s stomach before bringing his fingers up to rub small, light circles around Jack’s nipples. The frost child’s reaction was immediate as he gasped for air and arched his back, pressing the small nubs into Pitch’s fingers.  


Pitch marveled at the slow, graceful transformation as Jack’s nipples slowly started to pucker. The wrinkled flesh began to tighten as the areolas were called to attention by Pitch’s feather light touches. Small mounds ripened like tiny fruits, full and lush, finally standing at full attention and submitting to pleasure. Pitch bent forward to take one of Jack’s nipples in his mouth, allowing his free hand to lightly toy with the other. He caught the small nub between his teeth and pulled lightly, emitting a small hiss from Jack, who arched his back again trying to press his erection against Pitch’s leg. Keeping his tongue busy with the nipple in his mouth, Pitch reached his hand down to gently caress Jack through his pants. He was so hard, Pitch mused, letting his fingers lightly tease the bulge. He didn’t doubt that it hurt being encased in those tight little pants. He didn’t let his hand linger for long before pulling away, earning a needy whimper from the boy. “No, please,” Jack whined, trying to reach down with his own hand, desperate for release. But Pitch stopped Jack’s movements, using his black sand to pin the boy’s bony wrists above his head. Jack let out a small cry, his body now writhing under Pitch, who had gone straight back to work on Jack’s nipples.  


The man circled the hardened nub with his tongue, sucking hard on the swollen flesh. He could taste Jack’s fear, knotted tightly around his heart – the boy’s fear never really quite left, even when he was lost in the throes of pleasure. Pitch drank the dark emotions that radiated from Jack’s body. It gave him life. Once the shade had exhausted the nipple in his mouth, he let it go before sitting up and watching curiously as it immediately frosted over. Pitch bent back down, pressing his lips to Jack’s icy skin, leaving a wet trail of kisses and bites across Jack’s frost-covered chest. When Pitch caught the other nipple in his mouth and bit down, Jack cried out, seeming to forget how to breathe.  


“Shh,” Pitch hushed, smoothing his hand against Jack’s chest until the boy caught his breath. He noted the small dots of blood around the poor nipple he had bit down on. It must have stung but it seemed to have hit something in Jack, whose body now twitched in desperation to find friction. He bucked his hips, pressing his arousal into Pitch’s leg once again. The man swiftly brought his hands down to hold Jack’s hips against the ground so they could no longer move. Something between a whine and a sob escaped from between Jack’s lips, but Pitch only held him down more firmly. He was going to get Jack and himself off by playing with Jack’s nipples alone.  


He pressed his mouth over the boy’s most recently abused nipple, his tongue doing away with the frost that had begun to form over it. Jack arched his back again as he gasped for air. His hands, still bound above his head, twitched with the need to move, to touch himself, anything, but he could only flex his fingers far enough to brush against the tombstone – his tombstone. Pitch continued his assault on Jack’s now swollen nipple, licking the blood away, sucking greedily on the pink nib. He caught the scent of negative emotions once again; the tight knot of pain, loneliness, and fear of rejection, all of which had secured themselves around Jack’s heart, never to leave. Pitch suckled harder on Jack’s skin, drawing the dark energy out to satiate his hunger, but not to remove it completely. He’d let most of it stay there, bound firmly to Jack’s soul; it would fester and grow, and Pitch could come back for more.  


Jack’s breath suddenly hitched again and he cried out sharply, his voice cutting through the night. The possessive wind howled, blowing tiny snowflakes all around them, and Pitch swore that even the snow on the ground shuddered when Jack finally came. Pitch returned his focus back to Jack’s tired nipple, ignoring the frost that raced across his own lips and cheeks, and sucking a few more tendrils of fear from the boy’s heart. A few seconds later, he came as well, collapsing on top of Jack, who was still trying to catch his breath.  


They lay there in complete silence for several minutes, and Pitch barely noted how the snow had changed. The previously small, sharp flakes had transformed into lighter, fluffier ones, drifting slowly before gently landing on either the ground or a tombstone. Shifting so he could see Jack’s face, Pitch grinned lightly at what he found. Jack’s eyes were barely half-open, the exhaustion that had been there before had returned with full force, quickly pulling the boy under a sleepy spell.  


Pitch glanced toward the sky noticing, much to his disappointment, that the horizon was beginning to glow with the first signs of daylight. It was his cue to leave this place and travel westward, following the shadows so that he could continue his perpetual haunt around the globe.  


Taking one last glance at Jack, whose eyes had now closed, the boogeyman pulled the boy’s hoodie back down. “Until next time, Jack,” he barely whispered before standing up to leave, giving a small flick of his wrist and freeing Jack's hands. Jack whimpered slightly at the loss of warmth, but he curled up on his side and snoozed on.  


Pitch turned to leave, only looking over his shoulder once at the slowly brightening horizon and Jack, who slept over his own grave. Funny how things turned out. Chuckling lightly, Pitch drifted away from the graveyard and toward the woods, melting into the gentle caress of darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> "Over my dead body." *evil cackle* Jack, you ought to choose your words more carefully.


End file.
